


Heaven is a Place on Earth

by iamtheenemy (Steph)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Aziraphale gets his shit together, Aziraphale has so many feelings, First Time, Gabriel is a bad boss, M/M, accidental miracles, but Crowley is a good boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 04:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph/pseuds/iamtheenemy
Summary: “But I’d never see my books again, Crowley. And the shop. I haven’t even had a chance...And after you went through all the trouble of getting me this space.” He meant to put the glass down on the table. He missed on his first and second attempts, but got it on his third. “And I’d never see…” He looked up at Crowley. “Well, that is, I’d never see - ““All right, angel.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You’re drunk.”“If it wasn’t for you, I’d be there right now, chatting up bloody Uriel,” Aziraphale continued.Aziraphale makes the choice that his subconscious was making all along.





	Heaven is a Place on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I know about holy water, I learned from Google.

**Heaven, 4004 BC**

“You let her eat the apple?!”

Aziraphale clutched his hands in front of him and stared at Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon, and Uriel forming a menacing semi-circle around him.

“Err…’let’ is a strong word,” he hedged. “You see, it was that serpent, Crawley. He’s really very clever and - “

“You had _one job_, Aziraphale,” Gabriel barrelled on, talking right over him. “You were put on Earth and told not to let the humans eat the apple. And then what happened? Anyone? Sandalphon?”

“They ate the apple,” Sandalphon answered.

“They ate the fucking apple!” Gabriel shouted.

“In my defence, there _are_ three other gates,” Aziraphale said, eager to pass the buck.

“And I’ll be talking to the guys guarding those too!” Gabriel promised. Then he sighed and deflated, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “This has made our jobs so much harder, you realize that, right? There’s going to be more of them now. They’ve started pro-creating already.”

“I had noticed that,” Aziraphale said delicately, leaving out how intimate a view he had of the whole process from his perch on the wall.

“I’d say that I hate to do this, but this whole thing is your fault, so I don’t care,” Gabriel told him. “You’re being assigned to stay on Earth _indefinitely_ to keep an eye on the humans and thwart that damned demon.”

Aziraphale’s eyes cut from Gabriel to the rest of the group. Their barely concealed gleeful malice at doling out this consequence rankled. But the joke was on them, because Aziraphale found Earth rather peaceful. He enjoyed all of the vibrant colours and sounds and smells. Plus, Eve’s baby should be on its way soon, and Aziraphale was dreadfully curious how, exactly, that would work. There were no clear exit points on the human body that he could see.

“Oh my, what a terrible punishment,” Aziraphale intoned gravely. “You really showed me. I promise I won’t let you down.”

“Whatever,” Gabriel said with a roll of his eyes.

Aziraphale squeezed his hands together, took a deep breath to gather his courage, and said, “Since I have you all here, I had been wondering something. Just idle curiosity, you understand. Apropos of absolutely nothing - “

“Spit it out, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said.

“Right, ehm. Do any of you happen to know _why_ they weren’t supposed to eat the apple in the first place?” he asked.

“Uhhh...because it’s the Divine Plan?” Gabriel said, looking at Aziraphale as if he were an idiot. It wasn’t terribly different from how he normally looked at him. “Duh?”

“Yes, that’s what I told...myself. When I was thinking about it. Alone. With my flaming sword. Which I still have,” Aziraphale stuttered.

“Would you just leave already?” Gabriel said, and with a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale was back on the wall.

* * *

**Genoa, 1348 AD**

Aziraphale had known that the plague was going to hit Europe, travelling along with traders and migrants from Asia. When it was explained to him, though, he never expected _this_.

The horror surrounding him was like a physical weight bearing down on his chest. The sour, putrid stench of death was thick in the air wherever he went. Even a miracle could only banish the smell for an hour or two before the sheer volume of rotting corpses overpowered it and brought it back. Dead bodies were piled by the dozens on the streets, their blackened, pustule-ridden skin oozing with infection that was lapped up by the rats to start the cycle all over again.

”I thought you said the Almighty wasn’t planning to wipe them all out again after the flood!” Crowley cried accusingly when they’d happened upon each other in the deserted square. It was one of the few occasions over the last two thousand years when Aziraphale had seen him without his glasses, and his golden eyes _blazed_.

”I…” Aziraphale began, and then he had to stop to clear his throat and collect himself. “I was told that apparently that promise only extended to the act of _drowning_ specifically.”

”Oh, of course,” Crowley said, the words dripping off of his tongue like acid. ”Lovely deity you choose to follow. The God of Splitting Hairs.”

Aziraphale kept silent. There was nothing he could say.

”Well, at least that tosser Pestilence is probably having a nice, long wank to all of this,” Crowley added with a derisive snort as he paced a jittery circle around the cobbled street. “His prick is nice and wet right now, I bet.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped.

The quickness with which the demon turned and grabbed Aziraphale’s coat told him that Crowley was looking for a fight. His whole body was coiled tight and posed for battle.

”What? Will you defend Her? Defend this?”

Aziraphale went up on his toes as Crowley dragged him back against a wall covered in caked over vomit. “Just...language,” he said foolishly. His manners were the only thing left for him to cling to. ”There may be children listening.”

Crowley let him go and threw his arms open wide. ”They’re all going to die anyway!” he shouted, his eyes brimming and his voice cracking.

The wretched, helpless sorrow in it rang in Aziraphale’s ears for the next century.

*

**Heaven, 1350**

“It’s a dreadful business what’s happening down there right now,” Aziraphale explained to Gabriel and Michael, trying to speak as objectively as he could about the years of unceasing misery and fear and grief on Earth.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Gabriel replied. “You should see what the good ones look like when they show up at our gate.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “Michael is the one who has to do the disinfecting.”

“So messy,” Michael said tonelessly.

Aziraphale blinked and replied, “I’m sure, but - “

“I know we’re supposed to love them,” Gabriel continued jovially, “and I do, of course. I mean, obviously. But between us, humans are _disgusting_.”

“Too many fluids,” Michael added.

“Yes, err...completely agree,” Aziraphale said. “Out of curiosity, though, how much longer can I expect this to continue? For my own records.”

Michael pulled out a stylus and tapped a few buttons. “Looks like this first round is scheduled to end in the next year or so.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. “First...round?” he asked.

“Someone isn’t reading his memos,” Gabriel chided. “Epidemics are scheduled for every couple hundred years or so. Nothing huge, just culling 10-15% of an area’s population. The ones who earned it get to come here. The ones who didn’t - who cares? The survivors feel lucky and become more devout, giving us a nice boost in our numbers down there, yada-yada. Everyone wins.”

Without his consent, Aziraphale’s mind went to Lorenzo, the friendly, gregarious man who made him the most handsome and comfortable pair of shoes he’d ever worn.

Aziraphale had encountered him again, weeks later. He was sobbing out on the street, clutching the lifeless, disfigured bodies of his wife and two children in his lap. Aziraphale had tried to tell him to get away, that the disease was spread through contact, but that only made the man hold them closer, pressing desperate kisses onto the bloated face of his dead son.

_”Please,”_ he’d cried. _“Please, let me die. Let me die.”_

“Almost everyone,” Aziraphale muttered.

“I have to hand it to you, though. Sticking it out down there through all of that? I couldn’t do it. And _Michael_?” Gabriel laughed. “Just try and picture that.”

“No thank you,” Michael said.

Aziraphale glanced around at the sterile, shining conference area, with its breathtaking view of the glittering mountains and crystal clear ocean around them. He looked at Gabriel and Michael and the other angels walking by, chatting without a care, while on Earth, people were suffering and dying by the thousands in the most hideous way imaginable.

It made him feel sick. It made him feel...ashamed - an unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable sensation that burned the back of his throat and made his stomach churn.

“Yes, well, I do what I can to help,” he said awkwardly. “In fact, I ought to be getting back there now.”

“Wait, we haven’t even gotten to why I called you here,” Gabriel said.

“Why is that?” Aziraphale asked. He was so very tired.

Gabriel held out his hand to Michael, who miracled a sheet of paper and handed it to him.

“We’re impressed with how well you’ve been doing lately. You’re really making up for that whole apple debacle. And sure, it took 5000 years, but we like to recognize growth and achievement here, no matter how long it takes,” Gabriel said.

Aziraphale took the paper and stared down at the cheerful font. _Most Improved!_ it declared brightly.

“Congratulations,” Michael said without even the slightest uptick of her mouth.

“Thank you,” he said faintly, unable to meet their eyes.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve earned it, buddy.”

* * *

**Rome, 1508**

Rome in the winter was always lovely, especially compared to some places that Aziraphale been stuck over the past five thousand years. Still, he couldn’t say he was the biggest fan of the Warrior Pope and his Papal States at the moment, even though Gabriel and Michael were head over heels for the man and his constant wars. So much barbaric cruelty committed in his bid for power, yet all of it claimed falsely to be done in the name of God.

Same as it ever was, of course. It didn’t take much time at all for the humans to start twisting religious doctrine to suit their own purposes. Honestly, the amount of things the humans claimed were holy nowadays that Heaven didn’t give two figs about…

Put a bad taste in Aziraphale’s mouth, but he consoled himself by remembering that it was all part of the Divine Plan. Even the obscene wealth of the church as compared to its parishioners. Even the torture, the murder, the…

“Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale was yanked out of his thoughts by a familiar voice. He turned and saw Crowley had somehow snuck in beside him.

“Crowley! What are you doing here?” Aziraphale exclaimed. He ignored the happy tug in his stomach at seeing his old frie - adversary. And at the striking black doublet he wore that set his long, fiery red hair on display. Crowley didn’t...well, he didn’t look _unattractive_. For a demon. “Why, I haven’t seen you since…”

Aziraphale trailed off as he remembered the last time.

“Since,” Crowley agreed.

Since that miserable day in Genoa.

“What have you been up to?” Aziraphale asked, eager to change the subject.

“Took a nap,” Crowley said. “Woke up and poked around Madrid for a while, doing the odd temptation here and there to get back in the swing of things. Set up shop in Florence after that. This is new.” He gestured across from them.

Aziraphale turned again to face the Sistine Chapel.

“Yes, it’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” he asked. “Took a while, but dei Dolci finished it about twenty-five odd years ago.”

“Hmm,” Crowley responded, and Aziraphale realized belatedly that he wouldn’t take the same pleasure in an exquisitely designed church. “I found something while I was in Madrid that I think you’d like.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, interest piqued. “What’s that?”

Crowley waved a hand, and a table and chairs appeared beside them. “Have a seat,” he said.

“All right,” Aziraphale agreed. He took one chair and Crowley took the other. The townsfolk who passed them only wondered briefly about the table sitting in the middle of the road before the confusion slid right out of their minds and they continued on their way.

Crowley was slouched in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, an arm thrown over the back of it.

“Angel, have you heard of something called ‘chocolate’?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s nose scrunched in distaste. “From the New World? Yes, I’ve tried it a time or two. Very bitter.”

“Well, they’ve been experimenting with it in Spain,” Crowley explained. From out of nowhere, he pulled out a tall, cylindrical container. “They melt it down and mix it with cane sugar and spices to make a drink that they serve hot.”

He pressed his hand to the container and it flared briefly as he warmed up its contents. A cup appeared in front of Aziraphale, and Crowley poured a generous amount of the thick, dark liquid into it.

“Go on,” he said.

Aziraphale looked at it dubiously. Chocolate hadn’t been to his liking when he’d had the opportunity to try it, but one sip couldn’t hurt.

He picked up the cup and toasted Crowley, who watched him with an air of nonchalance, and raised the cup to his lips. Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the first sip.

It was sweet and spicy and coated his tongue before he swallowed it down. None of the bitterness he’d associated with chocolate remained, all neutralized by the sugar. He closed his eyes and took another, much longer draught from the cup, savouring the decadent taste and trying to categorize the flavours. There was the sweetness of the chocolate and sugar mixture, but he could also taste cinnamon and also a hint of chili that gave the whole drink just the right amount of zip.

When his eyelids fluttered back opened, he saw Crowley staring at him with a self-satisfied grin.

“Knew you’d like it,” he said.

“My word!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “This is marvelous!”

Crowley reached out and refilled Aziraphale’s cup, which was somehow empty.

“The humans are creative, I’ll give them that,” Crowley said.

“Oh, they _are_,” Aziraphale agreed. “Even after, well...all of it...it only took them a decade or two to rebuild and start to flourish again. Have you seen the art and music and architecture they’re creating? Astonishing.”

“Seen a bit of it,” Crowley said. “Met Leonardo da Vinci in Florence.”

Aziraphale nearly spit out his drink in shock. “He’s the best of the lot! Although I shouldn’t let them hear me say that here, things being the way they are between the Pope and the Borgias. What’s da Vinci like?”

Crowley thought about it. “Clever,” he answered after a moment. “Smarter than any ten other humans put together, in fact. Innovative. Charming. Great sense of humour.”

Aziraphale placed his cup down on the table with a gentle clink. He had never, not once in over five thousand years, heard Crowley say a nice thing about any human. He’d compliment their inventions, of course, if they improved his life, and Aziraphale knew he was generally fond of them, despite how he tried to hide it. But offering this kind of praise? It was unheard of. Aziraphale should have been happy to see Crowley finally growing attached to a human after all these millennia, but, in fact, it left him feeling strangely cold.

“Oh, I see,” he answered. “Have you two spent much time together then?”

“He’s kept me company in Florence,” Crowley replied. “I’ve been giving him my opinions on a portrait he was commissioned to do for the wife of some wealthy silk merchant. Leo’s been at it for ages, says he can’t get her smile right.”

_Leo, is it?_ “Well, It sounds as though you’ve been keeping busy,” Aziraphale said tightly.

“Mmm…” Crowley agreed. “What about you? How have you whiled away the last century?”

“Church intrigue, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, pushing those odd thoughts out of his mind. “Frightfully boring. But I’ve also been growing my book collection considerably, thanks to Gutenberg and his printing press.”

A man came wandering past their table, paying them no mind as he studied the Chapel.

“I heard about that. Assumed you had a hand in it,” Crowley said.

“Not at all! That was all the humans. The Chinese have been using something similar for ages, but the Europeans have finally caught up,” Aziraphale said. He took another sip from his cup and then abruptly remembered his manners. “Look at how selfish I’ve been! Please, have some of this, Crowley.”

Crowley waved away the offer. “I’m not a big fan of sweets,” he said. “I brought it for you.”

Aziraphale felt something warm suffuse his chest and he ducked his head to hide his pleased grin. “Thank you for thinking of me then.” _Take that, da Vinci_, he thought and then immediately felt ridiculous.

“I’m glad you like it,” Crowley said with the sort of warmth Aziraphale was always taught demons weren’t capable of.

Aziraphale’s heart gave a giant kick inside of his chest, and he raised his cup and took another sip to hide it.

*

Unbeknownst to both of them at that exact moment, the man strolling by was jolted almost to his knees from a lightning strike of Divine inspiration.

“My God,” he breathed reverently.

He had known that the Pope’s vision for the ceiling fresco was wrong, but he hadn’t come up with a better alternative until now. As if ordained by the Almighty Himself, colours and designs spiraled out, fully formed, before Michelangelo’s very eyes. Without a moment to lose, he began to run.

* * *

**London, 1601**

The trip to and from Edinburgh had been as painstaking as Aziraphale had feared it would be. The job itself was easy enough, if he ignored the fact that he was literally doing the Devil’s work by tempting those clan leaders for Crowley. It was hardly even a temptation though, really, when it came down to it. Aziraphale barely needed to give them a nudge, and they did the rest themselves.

His own blessings took longer than expected, because the target of said good fortune was nearly impossible to locate. He finally found her in the woods, up a tree, of all places. She was a precocious girl of barely nine years old, but she was destined to do great things for their side.

It had rained for the entirety of the trip home, and while Aziraphale could miracle his clothes dry, that Scottish dampness refused to fully dissipate. He had to hand it to the Brits: no one did ice cold drizzle like them.

As he finally crossed the London Bridge, having exchanged his horse for a carriage around Cambridge, he breathed a happy sigh of relief. The carriage dropped him off on the other side, at Aziraphale’s insistence. The rain had abated, at least for a little while, and he decided to walk the rest of the way home.

He peddlers were out in full force to take advantage of the nice weather, and Aziraphale was admiring a pair of soft leather gloves being sold by one such man when Crowley came up beside him, his hip colliding with the peddler’s cart.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale said, instinctively looking around the marketplace for any prying eyes. “Have you stuck around London then?”

“Yeah, err…” Crowley answered, rubbing the injured area. He took a deliberate step to the left. “You’re home early.”

“Am I?” Aziraphale asked quizzically. “It’s been over six weeks.” He miracled a few coins and paid the man before pocketing his new gloves.

“I suppose so,” Crowley said. “How’d it go? Any trouble?” He began walking backwards in front of Aziraphale.

“None whatsoever. I’ve never seen men more eager to start a conflict than your clan leaders,” Aziraphale said.

“Love a Scot,” Crowley replied. “Do you want to get some lunch? I know a new restaurant that’s gotten rave reviews.”

Aziraphale brightened. “You know I love to try new things. Is it on this side of the bridge?”

“No, it’s in Brussels,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale stopped walking. “_Brussels_,” he repeated. “All the way in Brabant? Across the sea?”

“Yeah, so?” Crowley asked.

“I’ve only just arrived back from Edinburgh,” Aziraphale explained. “I haven’t even been home yet. I’m not sure I’m up for a boat trip.”

“I heard that they make a great meat croquette,” Crowley said, an odd tone to his voice.

Aziraphale frowned and shook his head. “All the same, I’d much rather…” His eye caught on something behind Crowley, a throng of people all congregating at the Globe Theatre. He tilted his head to get a better peek, but Crowley moved into his eye line. Aziraphale took a step around him. “Have a look at the crowd around Shakespeare’s theatre, would you? What on earth is happening there?”

There were, in fact, dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people clamouring to be let into the doors of the Globe hours before any performance could be set to start.

“How would I know?” Crowley asked flippantly. “Now about lunch…”

“Has he debuted a new play?” Aziraphale asked. “No, that’s not possible, I haven’t been gone long enough.”

A couple was walking past them, clearly headed to join the scrum, and Aziraphale stopped them.

“So sorry to delay you,” he said, “but could you, by chance, tell me what’s causing such a tizzy at the theatre?”

Beside him, Crowley groaned just as the man said, “It’s to see _Hamlet_, of course. It’s been a madhouse for weeks ‘round ‘ere. I hear people’ve come down all the way from _Watford_ to see it.”

Aziraphale thanked them and then turned to stare at Crowley, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“In my rush to finish the job, I may have...overdone it a little,” Crowley admitted.

“_A little_,” Aziraphale repeated in astonishment, an excited grin overtaking his features.

“I miracled an entire city into loving something that’s complete rubbish,” Crowley said. “It’s practically evil, in its own way.”

“Oh, go on,” Aziraphale responded.

“I’m sure it’s a fad. You know how these things are. Give it another fortnight and everyone will have forgotten about bloody _Hamlet_,” Crowley declared.

As they walked closer, they saw a young boy entertaining the crowds of people gathered around, a top hat meant for loose coin on the ground in front of him.

“To be or not to be, that is the question!” he squeaked to the amusement of the onlookers.

“Lucifer help me,” Crowley grumbled. The bridge of his nose and his sharp cheekbones were noticeably pink.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale said as he tossed a coin into the hat. That pesky fondness was bubbling up inside of him once again, something that had been getting more frequent around the demon over the years, much to Aziraphale’s dismay.

“Shut it,” Crowley said. “Or else I’ll give your friend Burbage a stomach bug, and no one will be seeing _Hamlet_ tonight.”

“You wouldn’t,” Aziraphale said as they continued on their way.

“I absolutely would,” Crowley replied. “Lunch?”

“Not in Brussels,” Aziraphale answered.

“We’ll go to that cafe down the road with the sausage you like,” Crowley said.

“Excellent idea!”

*

Matthew Lister heard something, a strange sort of tinkling sound that seemed to echo across the crowd of people. He turned to his wife, Maria.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Ay,” she said. “And I felt a bit…” She stuck a hand down the front of her dress and pulled out her coin purse, which looked significantly heavier than it had when they’d left. She unlaced the top and poured the money into her palm. “What in God’s name?”

On a whim, Matthew plunged his hands into his own pockets and pulled out a handful of shillings.

“This is half the yearly rent,” he choked out, astonished.

“And I’ve the other half,” Maria confirmed.

Around them, Matthew began to hear other people begin to gasp as they found treasures of their own. The young boy who had so enraptured the audience with his performance was hugging a hat brimming with coins.

“What merry trickster has done this?” Maria asked.

Matthew shoved the coins back into his pocket. “I don’t know, but let’s leave before he returns to take it back again.”

* * *

**1791**

“Where was it this time?” Aziraphale asked Crowley when they met in Mayfair.

“Lisbon,” Crowley answered. “Tempting a merchant at the port. Easy enough. You?”

“Been poking around London mostly. Went down to Cardiff last week for a spot of Divine intervention. Checked in on King George III. As expected on that front, I’m afraid. Or I suppose it’s a good thing from your perspective,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I have so little patience for the monarchy. Might be good for my side, but personally I don’t give a toss. They get crowned, make as many people as miserable as possible until they die, and then the whole cycle begins again.”

“We can agree on that, at least,” Aziraphale said.

“Judging by what’s been happening around the world the last few decades, I’d say that isn’t exactly an unpopular opinion,” Crowley drawled.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said.

“You know,” Crowley mused after a moment of companionable silence. “I’ve been thinking lately that since I spend most of my time here in London that I might as well get myself somewhere permanent to live in the city. To serve as a base. What...do you think about that?”

Aziraphale gave a weak chuckle. “I think you’ll be coming in just as I’m moving out,” he said.

“Oh?” Crowley asked.

“Well, I haven’t decided yet, but, you see, I had the idea of opening up a bookshop,” Aziraphale explained.

“You’re going to _sell_ your books?” Crowley asked in disbelief.

“Not if I can help it,” Aziraphale scoffed. “No, it’ll mostly be for storage, I suspect. Only, I have quite a large collection of books, as you know, and London is so crowded. I very much doubt I’ll be able to find a plot of land or available building big enough to house them all. Maybe further north.”

“But if you had your choice…?” prompted Crowley.

“I’d stay in London, of course. I’ve grown so fond of things here,” Aziraphale admitted. Despite the overcrowding, the stench, the smog, and the subpar food, London had managed to worm its way into Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley snapped his fingers and a piece of paper appeared in his hand. He passed it to Aziraphale wordlessly. The document was a deed to a building right in the centre of London. Aziraphale stared down at it, his breath caught in his throat.

“What did you have to do for this?” he asked.

“Do you really want to know?” Crowley responded. “Or would you rather take the gift?”

Aziraphale hesitated and then looked back up at Crowley, feeling wretchedly conflicted. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I did it your way, angel,” he said. “I know you’d never accept it otherwise.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said with a small grin. “Then I suppose you can fill me in on the specifics some other time. We shouldn’t live too near each other, though. It would attract attention.”

“London’s a big city,” Crowley answered.

“It is,” Aziraphale replied, already warming to this idea. “And it would be terribly convenient to be near each other. For the Arrangement, that is.” And perhaps the occasional spot of lunch.

“For the Arrangement,” Crowley agreed.

*

Aziraphale didn’t bother smothering his sigh when he arrived back at his cottage to see a memo on his desk from Upstairs marked _urgent_. It wasn’t time for his centennial review, so it could only mean some new long term project that Gabriel assigned to him. And he’d been having such a good day.

He unsealed the envelope with a sense of dread, hoping for something close by. When he unfolded the letter, it was not at all what he’d expected. Instead of a new assignment, he’d been issued an official reprimand from Gabriel for doing too many ‘frivolous’ miracles.

That was preposterous. He used a miracle only when it was necessary to do his job. The odd one to heat his tea or do the cleaning up had never bothered Upstairs before, and it wasn’t as if he was performing those more than usual. Aziraphale could only conclude that this was one of Michael’s Corporate initiatives to improve angelic productivity. Every few decades there’d be a decree about doing or not doing some inconsequential thing, and Aziraphale would find his celestial wages docked when he inevitably forgot. Usually interest faded after a few years, so Aziraphale would just have to be careful until then.

No frivolous miracles. Well, looked like he’d be making his cocoa the human way that night.

*

In a little park in Mayfair, the local wildlife feasted on carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce and radishes perfectly ready for eating that hadn’t even been there hours before. In fact, no one had planted them at all. But they were tasty just the same.

* * *

[1800](https://imgur.com/a/CeOm3Tt)

Aziraphale stood stricken in the middle of what was going to be his bookshop. A bookshop it seemed he would never get to open after all, now that Gabriel had decided to “reward” him with a reassignment in Heaven. He touched the medal that the archangel had placed around his neck, half expecting it to burn his fingers.

“So...We’re going straight back now? Before the grand opening?” he asked. He felt faint.

“Well, soon,” Gabriel said. “We’re just going to stroll down to Cork Street to see my tailor. Do you want to come?”

“No, thank you,” he responded numbly. “I have some things to take care of here.”

“Of course,” Gabriel agreed, then he lurched forward, grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulders and shook him. “What’s wrong with you, man? This is a good thing! You’re finally going back to Heaven and getting away from this rock and all of its weird smells.” He sniffed the air and made a grimace of distaste. “What _is_ that smell anyway?”

Aziraphale inhaled. “My books,” he answered. “My tea.”

“Gross,” Gabriel said. “Sandalphon, what do you think?”

“Don’t have to worry about smelling tea Upstairs,” Sandalphon answered with an obsequious grin. “Don’t even need noses up there.”

Gabriel pointed at him and then back at Aziraphale. “Exactly!”

Aziraphale’s stretched, pained grin was giving him a headache. Ridiculously, he could feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He blinked and his mouth spread even wider to compensate.

Gabriel continued on, oblivious to Aziraphale’s growing agony. “I don’t know how you handled it down here for so long. But, you know, hence the medal! You’re a real trooper. So you finish up what you need to do here, and Sandalphon and I will be back after my fitting.”

Once they left the shop, Aziraphale’s head dropped into his hands.

Go back to Heaven? But things had only just settled down enough for him to get his shop finished. He’d had fliers made! And Michael here instead of him? She _hated_ humans, and wouldn’t be able to blend in amongst them.

And oh, humans were such fascinating, complicated, ingenious, lovely beings. He couldn’t possibly leave them to Michael’s not-so-tender devices.

He’d simply tell Gabriel that he had to be the one to stay on Earth, because of several ongoing projects that he was juggling and that no one else could complete but him. Yes, that was the ticket. Now he had half an hour to come up with some.

His _books_. He had a first edition of _Robinson Crusoe_ that would be arriving in the post any day now. He couldn’t even ask Crowley to keep an eye on them, because it would be far too dangerous for him to come back with some other angel around.

Aziraphale closed his eyes a moment and remembered Crowley grinning at him from outside the door a few minutes earlier, waving a box of chocolates. If Aziraphale was going back to Heaven, that meant the next time he and Crowley saw each other would likely be on opposite sides on the battlefield. Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his heart where it ached inside of his chest.

No, he couldn’t think about that right now. To dwell on that would make it impossible to focus on anything else, and he needed to figure out a solution before Gabriel returned.

*

When Gabriel and Sandalphon walked back into the shop, Aziraphale immediately went on the offensive.

“Gabriel, I’ve had some time to think about your offer, and I have to insist that I stay on Earth for the time being. There are three very compelling reasons for this. First - “

“Never mind, forget what I said before. You’ll continue being posted here,” Gabriel said, cutting off the argument Aziraphale had spent the past hour practicing.

“So...I’m not going anywhere?” he asked slowly.

“Change of plans. We need you here. In your bookshop. Battling evil,” Gabriel answered. He straightened the cuffs of his new jacket.

Aziraphale went lightheaded at this sudden change of fortune, though he had no idea what brought it on.

Sandalphon used his meaty fist to punch him in the arm and Aziraphale reeled back in pain.

“Carry on battling,” Sandalphon said.

“You can keep the medal,” Gabriel added.

“But I don’t understand…” Aziraphale began just as the two of them popped back out of existence, leaving him alone in his shop.

*

Hours later, after sundown, Crowley sauntered into the shop and found Aziraphale still shaken and on his way to getting very drunk.

“Have they gone?” Crowley asked. “I know I said that Michael was a wanker, but Gabriel? He’s the _worst_. My little gambit worked then, I take it? Must have, since it’s you here getting bladdered, and not Michael trying to smite me.”

Aziraphale’s head jerked up at that.

“It was you who changed their minds? Wait, what gambit?”

Crowley reached down and grabbed the wine bottle from Aziraphale and produced a glass for himself.

“Oh, come on, they didn’t tell you?” he asked, looking put out. He filled his cup and then waved both hands expansively in the air. “I put on quite the show. Your old mate Burbage would have been jealous. I pretended to be talking to some demon or other about how much evil I’d be getting up to if you were gone. How you were the only one who could possibly thwart me. Really laid it on thick.”

He grinned widely at Aziraphale’s stunned face.

“Bit of improv,” he said. “Honestly, I even impressed myself. Oh hey, by the way - “ He thumped the bottle on the table and retrieved the box he’d been waving at Aziraphale earlier through the window. “Congratulations on opening your shop.”

Aziraphale caught the box of chocolates when it was flung at him and stared down at it, feeling something heavy and complicated unfurl inside him. When he looked back up at Crowley, his friend seemed to realize that Aziraphale wasn’t as entertained by the story as Crowley clearly thought he should be.

“What?” Crowley asked, brow furrowing above his glasses.

“I’d been reassigned back to Heaven,” Aziraphale said.

“I know. That’s my point,” Crowley replied.

“Immediately, without any time to think or prepare or…” He took a heavy sip from his glass, blinking as his vision began to waver from the drink. “Heaven’s lovely, of course.” Even in his drunken haze, his mind was quick to pull back from saying anything too negative, afraid of the wrong people hearing. “Very...bright and clean and...Heavenly, ” he continued, ignoring Crowley’s scoff. “And Michael would be a competent representative down here.”

“Wanker,” Crowley muttered.

“But I’d never see my _books_ again, Crowley. And the shop. I haven’t even had a chance...And after you went through all the trouble of getting me this space.” He meant to put the glass down on the table. He missed on his first and second attempts, but got it on his third. “And I’d never see…” He looked up at Crowley. “Well, that is, I’d never see - “

“All right, angel.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You’re drunk.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I’d be there right now, chatting up bloody Uriel,” Aziraphale continued.

“Well, don’t go thinking you’re special,” Crowley said. “Had to protect the Arrangement, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale smiled, his drunken, silly heart overflowing with affection for the ridiculous demon. “Indeed,” he said.

*

Any person in England who was lucky enough to be standing outside that night saw something otherworldly streak across the sky. Bright, trailing fire showering down over the city in a shimmering cascade of light.

Some people believed there to be a scientific explanation. Some thought it was God. Others still put it down to magic. In the end, they were all each about as right as they were wrong.

* * *

**1940**

“We’ve got a job for you.”

Aziraphale jolted at the voice, his teacup clanging against the porcelain saucer.

“Gabriel!” he said, putting a hand over his heart. “You scared me!”

“I see that,” Gabriel answered, and then repeated, “You’ve been issued a new mission.”

“Is it about the war?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah. We’re hearing that this Hitler guy is obsessed with…” Gabriel snapped his fingers trying to recall a word. He tapped Aziraphale’s first edition copy of _Persuasion_.

“Jane Austen?” Aziraphale offered in confusion.

“Who?” Gabriel asked. “No, what are these things called again?”

“Books?”

“That’s right! For some reason I can never remember that word. Hitler has become obsessed with those books, the make believe ones,” Gabriel said.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Aziraphale responded wryly.

Gabriel waved a careless hand around. “You know, the ones with all the fake prophecies in them.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale brightened, sitting up straighter in his chair. “I happen to be in possession of the world’s most extensive collection of books of prophecy.”

“Of course you are,” Gabriel said. “Hitler has dispatched two of his most trusted operatives to track down as many of them as they can. Your job will be to infiltrate their organization and take them down from within.”

Now _that_ was more like it! Aziraphale loved these kinds of missions, the kind that let him put a stop to real evil in the world - and allowed him to utilize his acting chops. Why, this could even be _fun_!

“I’ll get right on it,” he said. “Who are these operatives I’ll be needing to hoodwink?”

“Here, I’ll give you their names and their current location,” Gabriel said. Then he miracled a biro into his hand and looked around. His eyes stopped on _Persuasion_, and he grabbed the book and opened it to the first page.

Aziraphale gasped and threw out his arm. “No!”

Gabriel finished writing and then carelessly ripped the page out of the book, taking a little of Aziraphale’s soul with it. He looked up and saw Aziraphale’s distress. “What?” he asked.

Aziraphale shook his head mutely and accepted the paper, on which Gabriel had written two names around Jane’s message to him. She was a spitfire, and an absolute shark at piquet, a fact that she alluded to when she wrote, _it were a pleasure playing at piquet with you, dear Mr. Fell. Please have this book to show my thanks, as you have lost to me on this night five times what it is worth. -Jane_

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said.

*

**35 Ridley Road**  
** LONDON**  
** 11th April, 1941**

> My Dear Sister,
> 
> How do things find you in Northampton? I hope you and the children are still doing well. Last time you wrote, you said that Nancy had taken up drawing. Has that kept her interest, or has she moved onto something new? Is there any word from Charles? It’s been nearly five months since I heard from my Thomas, and even then he could say nothing more than that he loved us and hoped to be coming home soon. I worry about him every day, but I try hard not to show it in front of the children. You know the game that we mothers must play.
> 
> Little Tommy is growing like a weed. When his father gets home, he’ll be surprised to find his boy is taller than him! And Maddy? Well, she’s becoming just as reckless and impulsive as her mother, I’m afraid. You’d laugh to see some of the scrapes she’s gotten into with the neighbourhood lads. If Mother was still alive, she would say it served me right for all the problems I gave her as a child. Maddy’s a good older sister, though, and caring to a fault.
> 
> I’ve waited too long to tell you the news of the air raids, which are, I’m sure, what most concern you. The attacks are coming nightly, and never in the same place twice. I hear sirens now, even when there’s none ringing. It pains me to think about it for long, because I fear that by the time the war is over, the Germans will have turned every last inch of London to ash.
> 
> That brings me to the real reason I’m writing you. Bernie, I have to tell someone the story of what happened to me two nights ago. Anyone else would think I’m mad, or that the war has finally gotten to me, but I trust that you know me better than that. I promise that what I’m about to tell you is the truth, Bernie. And my Madeleine can confirm it, though I know the word of a 12 year old girl is not the most reliable of evidence.
> 
> I will try to describe it just as it happened. Since that night, I’ve gone over it so many times that every moment is burned inside of my mind. It started with the sirens. They went off after tea time, when Maddy and I began the washing up. Tommy was on the floor playing with his train set. Immediately, I picked him up, and the three of us ran outside to the bomb shelter.
> 
> As we made our way across the yard, Maddy spied a wandering cat that she has taken a liking to. You know how that girl is with animals. Well, she called out to it (she’s named it Spot, of all things. I told her that’s a dog’s name, but she has no interest in her mother’s opinions on most matters). The cat wouldn’t come, likely scared by the sounds of the sirens and the falling bombs.
> 
> She ignored my bids for her to leave the cat alone and get inside the shelter to safety. I knew, with a mother’s intuition, that the girl wouldn’t come without it. So I took Tommy down into the shelter, pressed a kiss on top of his messy hair, and went back out to see about my stubborn daughter.
> 
> When I returned to the yard, Maddy had just managed to get ahold of Spot - but then it came. Bernie, you needn’t have ever heard a bomb dropping before to know it if it happened to you. The German bomber flew right over us, and the sound was so loud that my ears still ring two days later. I can’t describe the feeling of panic that overtook me then. Not for myself, but for Maddy, running at me with wide, frightened eyes, and Tommy, alone in that shelter without his mummy.
> 
> I grabbed hold of Maddy and threw my body over hers, a useless reflex that I’m nevertheless sure you understand. In the moment before the bomb landed, all of the most important people in my life flashed before my closed eyelids. You were there, dear Bernie, along with my lovely nieces. Mother and Father too, and of course, Thomas and the children. I must have screamed, because my throat ached for hours after, but in the cacophony I couldn’t hear it. And then I waited, certain that when I opened my eyes again, I’d be at St. Peter’s gates.
> 
> A believable, if harrowing tale so far, isn’t it, Bernie? Believable aside from me being alive to write it down, of course. But here is the part you’ll think me potty for: nothing happened. No bomb, no fire, no burning flesh or huge explosions. Maddy and I knelt on the ground clutching each other (for how long, I couldn’t say. Time didn’t seem to be passing at its normal rate just then, somehow going both too fast and too slowly both at once).
> 
> We waited and waited, and then I felt a tickle on my neck. Yes, that’s no mistake in my writing: it was a tickle, soft and gentle. I looked up, expecting to see smouldering carnage around me. What I saw instead (madness, I know, but I’d swear it on the heads of my children) was roses. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bright red roses strewn all over the ground and still drifting down from the sky like errant snowflakes in the place where the bomb had just been. I’ve enclosed in this letter one such flower that I took off the ground. It’s the only proof I have to convince you that I’m telling the truth.
> 
> Bernie, I should be dead. Our church, two streets down, was blown to bits. And yet, there we were, ankle-deep in roses. God saved your sister and your niece that night. There must be some purpose to it, some reason why we were spared, but I don’t know it yet.
> 
> Give it to me true. Do you believe my tale, or do you think your wild little sister has finally gone ‘round the bend? I look forward to hearing your conclusion.
> 
> Send Auntie’s love to Nancy, Elizabeth, and Sarah.
> 
> Your favourite sister,
> 
> Constance

* * *

**1967**

It didn’t take long for word of Crowley’s hairbrained operation to reach Aziraphale. They were practically neighbours, after all, and a plan to break into a church and steal holy water wasn’t something Aziraphale was likely to miss.

Of all the stupid, dangerous, ridiculous things that Crowley could do. Even if his little team of criminals could get into a church, Heaven kept diligent account of the holy water available on Earth at all times. They’d know if even a drop was unaccounted for.

Plus, not all of what got claimed to be holy water actually fit the bill. Any yahoo with a Bible nowadays thought they could bless some tap water and call it consecrated. It was possible that Crowley would risk his neck for water that was no more holy than what you’d find in a swimming pool - or a _toilet_.

No. If Crowley was going to insist on having this...this nuclear option in his arsenal, then it was only right that Aziraphale be the one to make it. He ought to, well. It just ought to be from him.

Aziraphale waited for the next rain storm and collected the water in a bowl. Then he brought it into his shop and set up his desk for the ritual, including all of his holiest artifacts to make the water as potent as possible. He sprinkled in a liberal amount of blessed salt and then began the rites.

“The blessing of this water reminds us of Christ, the living water, and of the sacrament of Baptism, in which we were born of water and the Holy Spirit…”

Unbidden, Aziraphale’s mind recalled an image of Crowley grinning widely at him, his red hair gleaming in the bright Italian sunlight, so smug as Aziraphale tried his first mug of cocoa.

The words caught in Aziraphale’s throat. He cleared it and tried again.

“The blessing of this water reminds us of Christ, the living water…”

Then there was Crowley, saving Aziraphale’s books and driving him home during an air raid. Crowley getting frustrated trying to learn the rules of poker, then giving up and cheating halfway through. Crowley mocking Aziraphale’s magic hobby, but still standing in the back at every performance, where he thought Aziraphale couldn’t see him. Crowley casually freeing two slaves set to fight to the death in the Colosseum, claiming that being denied their entertainment would cause unrest and discord in the rest of the population.

Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, just there, beside Aziraphale during every moment that mattered over the last 6000 years. His constant companion, his dearest friend, his…

“Blast it!” Aziraphale shouted. He slammed both hands down on the desk and hung his head.

Crowley _wasn’t_ his friend. He was the enemy, and Aziraphale would do well to remember that. He was a vile demon from the very pits of Hell, sent to Earth to tempt and tarnish the human race. And if he wanted a suicide pill, well Aziraphale should welcome that, shouldn’t he? One less evil scourge to deal with.

If Crowley wanted to leave Azir - to leave, then that was great. Wonderful. Tickety-boo.

* * *

**2013**

Aziraphale hadn’t expected to enjoy his time going undercover as the Dowlings’ gardener as much as he was. The stakes couldn’t be higher, but he had to admit that getting to engage in a bit of subterfuge was quite fun. He may have overdone it with his disguise, if Crowley’s reaction upon first seeing him was any indication, but it was all in the spirit of the endeavour.

And furthermore, there was something quite...liberating about being able to interact so closely with Crowley without worrying about Management seeing something they shouldn’t. It could all be attributed to Aziraphale’s stated mission of thwarting the demon’s attempt to influence young Warlock. It also had the added benefit of being the truth - loosely defined - since that _was_ what Aziraphale was doing, technically. Even if it was a joint effort.

Mr. Dowling was currently in America while Mrs. Dowling was out for the night with some friends, likely complaining about her loveless marriage. That meant the house was empty, save for the one Secret Service agent patrolling out front and Crowley and Warlock, currently going through the seven-year-old’s bedtime preparations.

Brother Francis didn’t have much cause to be inside of the house normally, but with no one to question it, Aziraphale snuck in with the purpose of asking Crowley to have a drink with him in the garden once the boy had gone to sleep.

Aziraphale had never witnessed this nighttime ritual before, and now he hung back outside the doorway to avoid being detected and waited for them to finish.

“Bedtime, Warlock,” Crowley said in the soothing Scottish brogue he’d chosen for the Nanny.

“When will my mom be back?” the boy asked. He was sitting up in his bed with blankets piled atop his legs.

“When you wake up tomorrow, she’ll be home, don’t you fret,” Crowley said. “Now, what do we say before we read our story?”

“One day, I will rule over the whole world,” Warlock recited. “And all creatures, great and small, will be ground under my boot heels.”

“Good,” Crowley said and handed the boy a sweet. Why hadn’t Aziraphale thought to use candy to bribe him? Wily old serpent.

Aziraphale thought they were done, but then Crowley added, “Except…?”

“Except for Brother Francis,” Warlock continued, making Aziraphale freeze. “Even if he looks different. Nanny, how will I know who Brother Francis is if he looks different?”

“Because when you come into your power, there’s nothing you won’t know and no one who will be able to hide from your wrath,” Crowley answered. He opened his hand and revealed a chocolate in his palm.

“Oh,” Warlock said, easily accepting this explanation and stuffing the candy into his mouth. “Okay then.”

Aziraphale pressed his back against the wall, breath heavy and eyes wide. When he heard Crowley start to tuck the boy in, he crept soundlessly out of the house and to the little cottage the Dowlings afforded him.

He sat down in his desk chair and rubbed a shaking hand over his face.

It was easy for Aziraphale to forget about this side of Crowley. In fact, Crowley would likely prefer it if he did, since the demon fancied himself full of malice and evil intent. But there were times like these when the reality of it hit Aziraphale like a punch to the solar plexus.

Crowley’s kindness could be overwhelming, especially when directed at Aziraphale. More often than not, it was directed at Aziraphale. And, oh, how kind he could be. How thoughtful. How generous. How loyal.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Aziraphale said, already knowing who was on the other side.

The door opened, and Crowley entered.

“Has Warlock gone to sleep then?” Aziraphale asked.

“Course not,” Crowley answered with a wry grin. “He slipped out of bed and grabbed his tablet to play video games the minute I left the room.” He waved a bottle of wine and leaned his hip against Aziraphale’s desk. “Drink?”

Aziraphale gazed up at the face he knew better than any other. If drawing had been one of his talents, he could have reproduced every detail of that face from memory: Crowley’s luminescent eyes, his stunning cheekbones, his expressive mouth with its thin lips, the curve where his jaw met his neck.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, sounding unsure at Aziraphale’s silence.

In response, Aziraphale miracled up the glasses.

“I’d love one,” he said.

*

_“And we’ve got some good news for those of you headed to the Wireless Music Festival scheduled to kick off at Olympic Park tomorrow morning. It looks as though the heavy thunderstorms that threatened to interfere with the concert - and everyone’s weekend - will be missing us after all. Instead of heavy rain the next few days, we can look forward to clear blue skies. So put away those brellies and take out the sunnies! For a more detailed forecast, we go to our meteorologist, Jack Wakefield. Jack?”_

_“Thank you, Paula...”_

* * *

**Heaven, Sunday**

Aziraphale looked at the angel screaming in his face about wars and fighting. He looked at the mindless angelic soldiers placidly awaiting their orders to destroy all that Aziraphale held dear. He looked at them, and he had the thought, 6000 years in the making, that he _hated_ them. He _did_. He really bloody hated every last, stinking one of them.

Aziraphale didn’t know if that thought would send him spiraling into Hell, but at that moment, running on instinct and a touch of bravado, he didn’t care.

With his mind made up, he touched England on the transdimensional portal and whooped as his discorporated essence took off. He’d flown before, of course, but he’d never with this sort of freedom.

As he glided over the Mediterannean Sea, he realized that he had no idea how to navigate like this. He had to get to his bookshop before he ran out of time to stop what was about to happen.

_Home_, he thought with all his might. _Take me home. Take me home._ He shut his discorporated eyes. _Home._

Moments later, he came to an abrupt stop, and when he blinked his eyes opened again, he found himself staring at Crowley. At first he thought that Crowley was in his bookshop too, and wouldn’t that have been convenient? But a closer look at his surroundings revealed that, no, he was in some kind of pub.

He’d meant to go _home_.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley said then, his voice tinged with wonder.

_Home_, Aziraphale thought, and then, _Oh._

*

“Are you all right?” Crowley asked him. It wasn’t an unfair question, considering that Aziraphale knew he was grinning like an absolute goblin.

He took a sip from his champagne, the one he’d just used to toast the world, and kept on smiling as the bubbly fizzed down his throat.

“Yes, my dear. In fact, I’ve never been better." And then, because he couldn't stand to go one more second without saying, he blurted out, "I love you."

“I’m sorry, what?” Crowley asked, looking poleaxed.

Aziraphale laughed with joy. “I love you. I’ve loved you since...oh heavens, I don’t even know how long. Since before the invention of the _wheel_.”

They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t notice one waiter grumble and pass a twenty pound note to another.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said again, because he was free and he could. Because he never wanted to stop. “Say you love me too.”

Crowley stared at him, mouth opening and shutting a moment before he answered in a voice like gravel, “You know I do.”

Aziraphale laughed again.

“I don’t choose Heaven or Hell or Earth or Alpha Centauri,” he told Crowley. “I choose you. Now kiss me.”

Crowley nearly knocked over their champagne flutes in his haste to comply. He grabbed Aziraphale’s face in his hands and smashed their mouths together in a rough, wet, awkward tangle of lips and tongues that was nonetheless the best thing that Aziraphale had ever experienced.

*

“We’ll have picnics in the park,”Aziraphale said. His right leg was bent, held steady by Crowley’s long, thin fingers wrapped around his calf. There was sweat on Aziraphale’s brow and behind his neck. He eyes refused to stay open.

“Yes,” Crowley said as he pushed in with another juttering snap of his hips.

“Hold hands at the National Gallery,” Aziraphale added.

“Yes.”

“Take a holiday to Venice and kiss in a gondola.”

“Yes.”

Crowley peppered his neck and chest with nips and kisses, sharpening the nerve endings until Aziraphale felt as though surely the next press of Crowley’s lips would be the one to send him over the edge. Both of his hands were in Crowley’s hair, holding on for dear life.

“We’ll make love on the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s stiff cock into his hand and stroked. “Yes.”

Aziraphale strained up into his grip. “We’ll...oh...we’ll stay right here forever.”

“_Yes_,” Crowley hissed and came.

*

**UNDERSTANDING OUR COOLING EARTH AND THE PRECIPITOUS DROP IN GREENHOUSE EMISSIONS**

ROSALYN ATKINSON  
University of Oxford, England

JUAN CALDERON  
University of Barcelona, Spain

GWENDOLYN OCHOA  
Yale University, USA

> The Earth is on track to have its coldest year on record since 1938, before the post-World War II industry boom. This is a stunning reversal of a trend, which, according to NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS), showed the average global temperature on Earth increasing by about 0.8° Celsius (1.4° Fahrenheit) every previous year since 1880. This change coincides with a marked drop in greenhouse emissions from the burning of fossil fuels, despite no significant lessening of their use around the globe. We used modeling data to try and understand the causes of this phenomenon, determine whether it is an anomaly or the start of a new trend, and outline what steps governments should take in order to maintain or even improve upon this record.
> 
> Click **here** to read more

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this blanket permission to use this story for any remix, podfic, translation, fanart or other transformative work you'd like, but please inform me, credit me and provide me any links so that I can include it in the notes. 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theres-a-goldensky).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Heaven is a Place on Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20294197) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)


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